The Perfect Manhattan
by grey5leader
Summary: Set immediately post 02x04. Max and Caroline process their Cupcake Wars loss. Privately. With drinks. Maxoline & femslash all the way.


"_Max, I'm not worried about that. __**You'll just tell me what to do, like you always do**__, and we'll be the two scrappy girls with so little you can't help but love them."_

Publicly, Max played off their Cupcake Wars loss like she played everything - brash and direct. They had finished their shift with a relative amount of normalcy, but when one person knows another in the way that Caroline and Max had come to know each other, it was easy to see that there was a weight pressing on her shoulders. Max kept up appearances, but the slight slouch and minutely delayed responses to Oleg ("...what? Oh, keep it in your pants, Cold War Manwhore,") spoke of a weight that hadn't eased up.

As they walked the few short, cold blocks back to the apartment, Max's mind betrayed her and she thought yet again of her failure.

The moment the secret ingredients were revealed, Max felt immediately and inexplicably exposed. Suddenly the game was up - she wasn't a chef, she wasn't a business owner, and she didn't even know what sweet potato tasted like when it wasn't topped with syrup, nuts and marshmallows at a sad excuse for a family Thanksgiving. She wasn't a baker. She was exactly what she feared, deep down - someone who is not in control of her own life. And it was caught on camera.

She thought about Caroline's words then. "You'll just tell me what to do like you always do." She heard it again almost as if Caroline had spoken the words out loud right there on the street. She'd said it with such cheerfulness, such ease. Almost as if the one thing she had left was the simple assurance that Max would give her orders, and she would follow them, and she would be happy and content. If the roles were reversed, Max would have bolted. She didn't like taking orders.

She glanced over at Caroline, who seemed unsure because of the quiet. Normally she would have been jibbering endlessly about customers, about Han, about life. But Caroline was quiet, and the quiet seemed like yet another failure.

As they neared the familiar steps and Caroline started to dig for her keys, Max cleared her throat slightly and tapped two fingers against Caroline's hip bone, jutting even through her uniform. It wasn't much but it was enough of a departure to catch Caroline's attention. She paused momentarily and looked over her shoulder.

"When we get inside, make me a drink," Max said with what little confidence she had left. It was a gamble. It was quite possible that the last thing Caroline wanted to do when she got home was play into some twisted game of domestic power exchange, but her reaction said otherwise. Caroline visibly relaxed, and she smiled a broad, natural smile of acceptance. Her body language shifted and she turned away from the door, facing Max, her hands still clasped tightly to the doorknob behind her. If Max didn't know better, she would think Caroline had arched her back just ever so slightly. Was that pride glinting in her eyes?

"Of course I will," she said, and smiled an encouraging smile that was almost too sweet to bear. She turned back to the door and slid the key neatly into the lock, all the fumble replaced with lithe grace. "You just sit down and I'll take care of you."

Max didn't care to think too hard about what that reaction meant. She was offended at the idea of someone taking care of her. The idea that the simple mixing of a cocktail could somehow make up for a level of care she'd failed to receive across the (what seemed like endless) expanse of her years was ridiculous. But Max was driven by something more than her own need. She was driven by that smile, that relaxed confidence, that utter assurance that only came from receiving direct, actionable orders from someone you trusted implicitly.

Was it possible, she wondered, that Caroline was a happier, better version of herself when she was doing exactly what Max told her to do?

It was a thought that shouldn't be entertained, at least not explored any further. Asking for a drink was one thing, but asking for true needs and wants was another. Max vowed not to abuse her newfound power.

As her thoughts faded and they entered the apartment, Caroline dropped her purse but took no further action to make herself at home. She headed straight for the kitchen and pulled a tumbler down from the cabinet.

"Make sure it's cold," Max said lightly, and she was rewarded with yet another smile beaming at her from the kitchen.

"Sure," Caroline said with a grin, her eyelashes fluttering appealingly as she turned around from gathering ice from the freezer. Max dropped her coat and her purse on the floor near the door and fell back against the couch cushions, reclining her head. She lifted one arm and draped it lazily across her eyes, blocking out even the dim light from the kitchen.

A few seconds later, she heard Caroline's heels (usually the first thing to come off) click the few steps across the floor to stand in front of her. Max removed her arm and opened her eyes to Caroline standing much too close, almost between her legs. Suddenly Max had an inappropriate flash to her childhood; her mother's slurred words saying "Don't sit like a sailor!" but now that advice seemed ridiculous. It was that very unladylike positioning that had led her here to this specific and perfect moment, at the end of a brutal day, with those perfect legs still in Louboutins standing there, slightly crossed, between her own knees. In Caroline's hand was a Manhattan.

"Thanks doll," Max said with enough humor to fly as a joke if that's how Caroline chose to play it. Suddenly Caroline's eyes turned steady, serious. She stood firm in her spot on the floor between Max's knees.

"I'd do anything you asked, you know," she said quietly. Her eyes moved downward to the floor and she seemed ashamed and Max could not bear it.

"I know. And I hope to god I can live up to that level of trust," Max said. She took a deep pull from the glass. The drink burned her throat but also left a sweet coating in her mouth. Of course Caroline Channing would make the perfect Manhattan. She wanted to reassure her with promises, whispered platitudes. But she knew, instinctively, that now was not the time, just as Caroline knew instinctively that now was the time to do exactly what she wanted to do, which just happened to be whatever Max asked of her.

"Get on your knees," Max said in a low and sure voice.

Time seemed to stop. Max breathed the way she imagined terminal patients to breathe - every breath counted. Caroline looked up wide eyed, and when met with Max's steady stare, she smiled.

"Of course," Caroline replied.

This first time, in this moment, Caroline needed no further instruction. She felt the promise ahead of her of nights spent obeying orders, following directions to the letter, pleasing. But tonight, "Get on your knees" was the most romantic, most perfect order she'd ever heard.

Without removing her heels, she wordlessly unzipped her tailored uniform, stepped out of it, and flung it to the side. Then, as asked, she knelt on the floor in between Max's legs, crossing her ankles neatly behind her.

Max was surprised at the seamlessness of the situation and had already hiked up her skirt and pulled her knees closer to her chest on the couch. Caroline looked at the job in front of her with an enthusiasm and determination that Max had previously imagined was reserved only for Wall Street internships and state dinners. She licked her lips, leaned in and began without being asked again.

Caroline brought Max to orgasm without further direction or any thought to her own pleasure. Her job complete, she felt completely satisfied. Max breathed in deeply and eased her legs down, stroking Caroline's hair. Caroline, despite herself, looked very pleased and proud.

"Now, may I take off these heels?" she asked.

"Of course," Max said, her voice laced with sleep and her hands still tangled in Caroline's hair.


End file.
